


Origin Stories: Hawkeye

by Tori_Scribbles



Series: Living [1]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Peggy Carter, Clint Barton Feels, Clint Barton Has Issues, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Deaf Clint Barton, Director of SHIELD Peggy Carter, Hurt Clint Barton, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Like a lot of issues, Past Child Abuse, Phil Coulson Has the Patience of a Saint, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, Prequel, Protective Phil Coulson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-03
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-27 15:31:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10811835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tori_Scribbles/pseuds/Tori_Scribbles
Summary: S.H.I.E.L.D. had had Hawkeye on their radar for years, but that was all they had on him; a code name. His file contained a code name, a grainy image from a security camera of the back of his head and a list of crimes several pages long.Until now.Now, they had a solid lead and that set Coulson on edge.For years Hawkeye had been meticulous, leaving behind nothing but an arrow and a body. No trace of who he is or who he works for. Until he got sloppy.▪Clint Barton: performer, marksman, assasin, S.H.I.E.L.D. Agent?





	1. Phil Coulson

**Author's Note:**

> So I considered putting this in the Snippets but decided it was best as it's own little fic and I'm planning on doing one for Natasha too.  
> You don't have to read Life Is Hard or any of the others, you can read this on its own.  
> I don't know how often I'll be able to update, so just bare with me on this.  
> The chapter titles indicate who's point of view it is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Chapter Warnings:** Descriptions of Malnourishment.  
>  **Chapter Edited:** 27th October 2017

**July 18 th, 1991. Chicago Illinois.**

S.H.I.E.L.D. had had Hawkeye on their radar for years, but that was all they had on him; a code name. His file contained a code name, a grainy image from a security camera of the back of his head and a list of crimes several pages long.

Until now.

Now, they had a solid lead and that set Coulson on edge.

For years Hawkeye had been meticulous, leaving behind nothing but an arrow and a body. No trace of who he is or who he works for. Until he got sloppy. So sloppy that he left a man alive.

A homicide detective, whose record was anything but clean, got rushed to the ER with an arrow to the back of the knee. The official police reports said that the officer’s backup had arrived before Hawkeye got to finish the job. With their detective still alive and Hawkeye gone, Chicago PD was counting this as a major win. But S.H.I.E.L.D. knew better; Hawkeye didn’t leave survivors and more importantly; Hawkeye didn’t leave witnesses.

As soon as S.H.I.E.L.D. picked up the report, The Director personally had sent Coulson and May to neutralise the threat once and for all.

Which is how Phil wound up standing alone in the small crap-shack that Hawkeye was currently residing in, waiting for the archer to come home. He had May running point from the Quinjet, keeping a close eye on the security feeds surrounding the building; she was his only backup.

 _“I have a visual,”_ May’s voice came through the comm in his ear. _“Male, blond hair. Entering the building now. He looks unarmed.”_

"I doubt that,” Phil murmured back, letting his fingers brush over the wooden longbow that was on the table. Next to the bow was a quiver full of arrows and an array of mismatching knives, even a throwing star. But Phil was unconcerned about the knife. On the edge of the table was a half-empty box of 9mm bullets, but no gun.

In the corridor outside a floorboard creaked and Phil turned to the door. He drew his Glock from its holster, holding it by his side almost casually; watching closely as the handle turned and the door opened inwards with a loud screech of old hinges.

The man froze in the doorway at the sight of the intruder and Phil faltered for a moment at the sight of him.

The man, a boy really, couldn’t have barely been twenty years old and he looked sick. He looked dangerously thin. His cheeks hollow, his hooded jacket practically hung from his shoulders, his blue eyes gaunt and empty. There was muscle definition in his arms, no doubt from the years spent as an archer which meant he was getting some food; but it was obvious that it was nowhere near enough. His light hair was short and greasy like he hadn’t showered in days.

Phil had seen killers in a lot of different shapes and sizes over the years, but never would he have pegged this guy as a first class assassin. He looked more like a hurt kid, with a black eye and split lip to boot.

When Phil didn’t immediately raise his gun, Hawkeye took his chance. He swiped a knife from his back pocket, throwing it smoothly through the air; effectively snapping Phil out of his daze as he dove to the side a second too late, the blade grazed against the side of his neck before lodging in the wall behind him.

Phil pivoted back around, gun raised but Hawkeye was already in front of him, twisting the gun around and out of his hand with surprising ease. It clattered to the floor and Hawkeye kicked it across the room.

Ignoring May’s concerned voice in his ear, Phil fought back. The kid, the assassin, he noted, was good. Clearly trained by someone who knew what they were doing. But the malnourishment did him no favours. Once Phil got the upper hand, Hawkeye didn’t seem to have enough energy to gain it back. It seemed to take all of his effort to push himself up off of the floor to his knees; stopping short as he came face to face with the barrel of Phil’s gun.

Phil expected the boy to disarm him again, or at least attempt to; to try and go down fighting. But he didn’t. Instead, he tilted his chin up slightly, staring up at Phil with, tired, unafraid eyes.

“Go on then,” he said breathlessly, “do what you came here to do and get it over with.”

Phil let his finger rest over the trigger but found himself frozen. As Hawkeye stared up at him with a hint of almost relief on his face, something inside of Phil stirred uneasily.

“What’s your name?” he asked, the words falling from his lips before he could stop himself.

The boy’s eyebrows furrowed slightly before he answered. “Clint,” he said thickly, then swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “Clint Barton.”

Phil nodded slightly. The decision didn’t take a lot of consideration and before it was made and Phil raised a hand to his ear, clicking his comm back on.

“May?”

 _“Coulson? Are you okay? Sit-rep?”_ she questioned.

“I’m fine,” he replied, his gaze on Clint softening, “I’m making a different call.”

May sighed softly but didn’t sound all that surprised. _“You’re bringing him in?”_ she asked.

“Yes.”

 _“Alright,”_ she said, _“we’re two minutes out. Good luck explaining this to the Director.”_

Phil’s lips twitched as the line went dead. He let his finger slide off of the trigger, flicking the safety back on, he holstered his weapon. Clint’s eyes followed the movement, only now showing a hint of unease.

“I’m not going to kill you, Clint,” he said softly, watching sadly as Clint’s frown deepened.

“Why?” he asked his voice nothing but a confused whisper that seemed so loud in the silence of the room. He genuinely didn’t seem to understand why somebody wouldn’t try and kill him and Phil felt something inside of him break a little.

_What had happened to this kid?_

“Because I don’t think you deserve to die,” he replied honestly and Clint stared at him for a full minute. He opened his mouth to say something, then faltered and closed it again. “My name is Phil Coulson. I work for an organisation called the Strategic Homeland Intervention Enforcement and Logistics Division; my team are going to be here in a moment to take you in. We would appreciate your cooperation.”

Clint gave no indication of even hearing Phil speak. Instead, his eyes rested at around Phil’s shoulder as his mind seemed to whir. Neither of them moved until the thundering footsteps in the hallway drew closer.

May came in first, followed closely by the three members of their clean-up crew. She gave Phil the customary once-over before looking down at Clint and she too faltered.

“This is the infamous Hawkeye?” she said with a raised eyebrow, clearly trying to mask her surprise. May gave an impressed shrug before stepping forward into Clint’s line of sight. “Stand up.”

Clint pushed himself to his feet in almost robotic like movements, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

May went through the list of protocol questions. _Are you armed? Do you know why we’re taking you in? Do you understand what’s happening?_ And each time Clint would give nothing but a sharp nod or a shake of his head, giving no resistance as he was cuffed, led from the building and shoved into the back of a dark SUV.

.

As May touched the Quinjet down in the Triskelion’s hanger, there was the usual post-mission flurry of movement. The clean-up crew’s leader, Agent Olsen led an un-protesting Barton down the ramp, past Agent Hill who was waiting at the bottom for them.

“Put him in an interrogation room, someone will be down in a minute,” she ordered before looking up at Phil and May in turn with an unsurprised sigh. “The Director wants to see you.”

Phil gave a pleasant smile as May rolled her eyes with a distinct ‘why must you drag me into your shit’ look, which Phil conveniently ignored.

The three of them took the elevator up to the top floor and Hill waited outside the door with a pointed look.

“Go right in,” she said, “they’re waiting for you.”

Phil sighed, steeling himself to face the music, he pushed the door open. Following May inside, they came to stand in front of the desk.

“Agent Fury, Director Carter,” Phil greeted with a respectful nod.

“Agent Coulson,” Director Carter said, rising smoothly from her seat. Her fingers brushed over the file in front of her and she looked back up at them. “Your orders were to eliminate the threat. What happened out there?”

May looked across pointedly to Phil who didn’t waver.

“I made a different call, Ma’am,” he said.

Carter rolled her eyes. “Yes I can see that,” she said crisply, “but why?”

“All due respect, Ma’am, but go and take a look at him. He’s in rough shape and our intel said late twenties early thirties. The man in there is no older than twenty,” Phil said, watching as Carter’s eyebrow twitched, “I’m pretty sure what he’s done, he didn’t do because he wanted to.”

“We’ve been getting reports of kills matching Hawkeye’s MO for the past six years... and you’re saying he can’t be older than twenty?” she asked, getting two nods in response. Director Carter seemed to consider this; drumming her fingers over the file thoughtfully. “I’m going to see him.”

Phil gave her a grateful smile and she gestured for him to lead the way. The four of them took the elevator straight down to the detainment level. Agent Olsen who was waiting at the desk directed them through to Room 11 and they stepped through into the observation room. Phil looked through the glass to see Barton had now been cuffed to the table, staring straight ahead at the mirror like he knew they were watching him.

“Dear God,” Carter breathed, a look of unease on her face.

“Damn,” Fury said, “and you’re sure that _he’s_ the one been running around playing Robin Hood?”

“He’s the one.” May nodded.

“I see what you mean,” Carter said after a moment of deliberation. She tore her eyes away from the boy, looking over at May. “Find everything you can on Clint Barton, speak to Maria and she’ll get you access to the SSA.”

May gave a sharp nod. “Yes, Ma’am,” she said before moving swiftly from the room.

“What are you going to do?” Phil asked as Director Carter looked back to the Barton.

“I am going to make a cup of tea,” she said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “and I’m going to have a conversation with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The SSA is the United States Social Security Administration is an independent agency of the U.S. federal government that administers Social Security.


	2. Peggy Carter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You might be an excellent shot, Mr Barton. But I assure you the best marksman in history remains to this day to be Sergeant Barnes of the 107th. I’m not sure there’s anything you can do that will convince me otherwise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the title suggests, this is from Peggy's POV  
>  **Chapter Warnings:** Implications to human trafficking. Talking about past abuse.

Peggy pushed the door open with her hip, she slid into the interrogation room, nudging the door closed behind her with her foot. She didn’t look up at Barton. Instead, she focussed on setting the tray on the table, moving to the seat opposite him before she finally looked up at his suspicious look with a slight smile. She made a show of pouring herself a cup of tea, pouring in milk and a spoonful of sugar. Only once satisfied did she look up at him, meeting his suspicious frown with a polite smile.

“My name is Agent Carter, you can call me Peggy if you like,” she said, “we’re working on getting you some food, but in the meantime would you like a cup of tea?” Clint raised his cuffed hands pointedly, and in return, Peggy raised an eyebrow. “Please, I think we both know you can get out of those whenever you want.”

Something akin to uncertainty flickered across Clint’s face, but he covered it well with a seemingly carefree smirk. Twisting his wrists round, the metal cuffs fell to the table with a clatter and he pointedly set a disfigured paperclip down next to them.

Peggy’s smile didn’t waver, she just held out a cup to him and hesitantly accepted it. She nudged the tray closer to him.

“Milk? Sugar? Help yourself, Clint.” Peggy pretended to falter. “It is Clint, isn’t it?”

“We both know the answer to that,” he said, looking from the security camera in the corner, to the two-way mirror before back to her, but surprisingly, he didn’t meet her eye. Instead, his gaze rested somewhere around her chin.

“Actually we don’t,” Peggy said, “that’s just the name you gave Agent Coulson. For all we know, it could be an alias.”

“Clinton Francis Barton, social security number 641-78-4836,” Clint said offhandedly. “So what is this?” He gestured around the room with his free hand. “S.H.I.E.L.D’s best interrogation technique is sending an old lady with tea?”

“Oh no,” Peggy said pleasantly, taking a sip of her tea, “we have much more efficient ways of extracting information. But I don’t want your information; I’d much rather have your trust.” Clint scoffed slightly, but didn’t say a word; his eyes drifting back to the two-way mirror. “Tell me about yourself, Clint?”

Clint’s eyes snapped back to her and something unreadable flashed across his face before it settled to confusion. “Huh?”

Peggy frowned slightly, he didn’t exactly seem like the type of person to tune out in the middle of a conversation, especially in a situation like this.

“I said, tell me about yourself Clint?” she repeated. “How old are you? Where are you from? Where on Earth did the name Hawkeye come from?”

Clint scratched his ear absently. “Twenty. Ohio. The circus,” he replied shortly.

“What were you doing at the circus?” she asked, a soft curiosity lacing her voice.

“In,” Clint corrected, “I was in the circus. The world’s greatest marksman.” His voice lilted with a half-hearted enthusiasm as if he was announcing an act. “Never misses a shot. The best the world has ever seen!”

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” Peggy said with a slight laugh, “The ‘best the world has ever seen’ part. You might be an excellent shot, Mr Barton. But I assure you the best marksman in history remains to this day to be Sergeant Barnes of the 107th. I’m not sure there’s anything you can do that will convince me otherwise.”

Clint’s eyes narrowed, looking mildly offended for a moment before he shrugged it off. “Same category as Bucky Barnes,” he said, “I’ll take it.”

“What happened to your face?” Peggy asked, changing the topic sharply.

“The homicide detective put up a fight,” he said, his eyes flickering down to his mug before looking back up at her.

“Please, don’t lie to me, Mr Barton,” Peggy said, her voice unwavering.

Clint’s eyes widened in surprise, a hint of fear flashing through them. Clearly expecting some sort of retribution for being caught in a lie, but Peggy just smiled reassuringly.

“Nobody is going to hurt you here, Clint,” she assured him, her eyes flicking to the door behind him as it opened, “I just don’t particularly have time to listen to you lying.”

Agent Hill stepped into the room, coming around the table to pass Peggy the brown folder she was holding. As she got closer, Clint jumped, like he hadn’t heard her enter the room.

“Sorry to interrupt, Ma’am,” Hill said, “this is from Agent May.”

“Thank you, Agent Hill,” Peggy said with a nod, before stepping back out of the room, closing the door behind her. Peggy watched curiously as Clint followed Hill’s movements, not facing front again until the door was firmly closed.

_Curious._

Peggy looked down at the file, tilting it back so Clint couldn’t see, she scanned through the information.

_Clinton Francis Barton… Born: January 10th, 1971. Ohio… Parents deceased… Brother MIA… Nine foster homes… Eight reporting abuse... Four years with a circus until the ringleader received a large sum of money and Clint’s act disappeared; two weeks later Hawkeye started killing… One trip to the ER in his entire life…_

Peggy shut the file, dropping it down on the table with slightly more force than necessary.

“Anything interesting?” Clint asked.

Peggy studied him closely for a moment. “Quite,” she replied, then changed the subject again. “Can you hear me, Mr Barton?”

“What?”

“Can you hear what I’m saying to you? Can you hear my voice?” she questioned.

“Yes?” Clint replied a slight uptick in his voice made it sound more like a question than a statement.

“I’m just curious. It’s just that you didn’t notice when Agent Hill entered the room until she stepped into your line of sight. You flinched, making it clear she surprised you,” Peggy said. “Right now, you’re scared but trying to act confident by maintaining eye contact and using sarcasm. Which is fine, but every time I speak the eye contact breaks and you look down at my lips because you’re reading them.

“Also, it says right here that your brother took you to the ER when you were five, he told them and social services that your foster father slammed your head into a wall so many times it resulted in damage to your eardrums. Because they went untreated for a weak and a half they got infected. When the infection spread, the damage became irreparable. But, it says here that you got hearing aids, what happened to them?”

“They broke while I was in the circus,” Clint admitted quietly, “it’s not like that shit’s cheap.”

“I’m sure we can fix that for you,” Peggy said, ignoring his surprised look, “now, if at any point you don’t understand me, just let me know.”

“What’s going to happen to me?” Clint asked instead, his demeanour finally wavering.

“That depends on what you want,” she said and he tilted his head to the side curiously. “It depends on what you tell me.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“The truth,” Peggy said simply. “I need you to tell me the truth, not what you think I want to hear. Why did you leave the circus?”

“I didn’t belong there anymore.”

“Didn’t belong there, or didn’t belong to them anymore?” Peggy clarified. “It says here that Mr Jacques Duquesne received a large sum of money. Two weeks later you started killing. Tell me, Mr Barton, are they your employers or your owners? You were sold to them, were you not?” she said, not pulling her punches. She could practically see Fury’s raised eyebrow behind the glass.

Clint looked away, several emotions rushing across his face quickly and Peggy gave him a minute to compose himself. She waited for him to look back up at her before going on.

“Am I wrong?” she asked softly. Clint clenched his jaw and shook his head jerkily. “What happens after this conversation is completely your decision. Where you go, what you do, who you become. That’s all down to you. But we can’t do that until you tell me what happened.”

Clint was silent for several minutes, no doubt reconsidering every rule he’d ever lived by with a torn expression.

“Barney,” he started, his voice quiet, “my brother, he and I we—our last foster home was the worst. I was seven when the circus came to town. One weekend we snuck inside, swiped a few wallets and—” Clint laughed slightly. “—and we went crazy. When we ran outta money, we just took more. It was pretty great until we came across the air rifle stand and I couldn’t hit the target. It was rigged, most of the stalls there were, and I told the guy, Andre, who was running it.

“Barney wasn’t good with things being unfair. He kicked up a fuss, wanted his money back ‘nd all that. We were taken to Duquesne and he offered us work. Long story short, we took it and we ran away to join the circus. It’s uh—not as fun as the cliché makes it sound. We worked there for years, and they made me into Hawkeye. I learnt pretty quick never to miss and I didn’t; ever. It got me a reputation, word spread. People had approached me before, wanting to test how good I was, but one day they approached Duquesne instead, and the deal was made before I even knew they were there. I was thirteen.” Clint shrugged slightly in that ‘what can ya do’ sort of way.

“I’m sorry,” Peggy said softly and his expression hardened.

“I don’t want your pity,” he snapped sharply.

“It’s not pity,” she said, “I’m sorry that every person and system put in place to stop things like this and your foster families from happening, all failed you. This isn't ‘I feel sorry for you’, more like, I’m sorry this has happened.” Clint’s expression softened slightly. “Now, what can you tell me about the people who give you orders?”

Clint shrugged again. “Not much,” he said, “their clients pay well for the jobs. They use that money to move their base after every op, and they shed their aliases just as fast. I could give you the past aliases and locations, but they wouldn’t lead anywhere.”

“All the same.” Peggy smiled.

“Then what happens?” Clint asked.

“Then, whatever you want. S.H.I.E.L.D. can help you get away from this life. Give you a new identity and help you get whatever career and life you want,” she said. “Or there’s a job here for you. You could work with us. Help make the world a little better. Help us give other people, people like you a second chance.”

“And what gives you the authority to make that call?” Clint asked sceptically.

“Because you’re sitting in my interrogation room after being brought in by my Agents, on my plane, to my building. Everything that happens in this organisation is my call; including what happens to you. I am not an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D, Mr Barton,” Peggy said strongly. “I’m the Director of S.H.I.E.L.D. I built it.”

Clint tried and failed to mask his surprise this time.

“But why?” he finally asked, “Why are you giving me a choice? Organisations like this don’t give choices to assets.”

“You’re right, sometimes they don’t.” Peggy shrugged. “But I do. You have an amazing skill set, Mr Barton. But at the end of the day, they’re your skills to use or to waste.” She turned slightly, making a gesture to the two-way mirror before looking back to Clint. “I don’t expect you to make this sort of decision straight away.” The door opened and she nodded towards it to alert Clint. “You remember Agent Coulson? He’s going to help you compile a list of all the aliases and bases that you know of,” she said, moving to clear up her tea things, leaving Clint with his still full mug of tea. She picked up the tray and file, stepping around the table as Coulson stepped in, a tray of food in his hands.

She looked down at Clint for a moment, waiting for him to look back up at her before she spoke, “It’s your decision, Mr Barton. We may not like whatever you choose, but we will respect it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is this different POV thing working?

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [ Tumblr ](http://purplepingupenguins.tumblr.com/) and [ Pinterest ](https://www.pinterest.com/ToriTris/life-is-hard/)  
> Let me know what you think?


End file.
